


Ruffled Emotions

by Angelise (angelise7)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e12 inspired, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Movie inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelise7/pseuds/Angelise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Financial woes force Starsky to take on a second job and Hutch is not happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruffled Emotions

 

“Twelve hundred dollars?”

Starsky stared in disbelief at the two men standing in front of him. One was his smirking partner, whom he immediately punched on the arm just for the heck of it. The other man was Merl the Earl, the only person on Planet Earth -- hell, the ENTIRE UNIVERSE -- qualified to lay hands on his beloved Torino.

“You gotta be joking, Merl! Twelve hundred dollars? Twelve. Hundred. Dollars?” He cleared his throat, hoping it would lower his voice back to its normal timbre. “Come on, man. I’m one of your best customers. Can’t you cut me some slack?”

“It is what it is,” Merl drawled. He handed over the repair estimates.

Starsky stared as the sheet of paper as if it was a live snake ready to strike. “Yeah, but …”

With a large grin spreading across his face, Mel continued on, “Mistreat your lady,” he explained, “and you pay the price.”

Starsky tore his gaze away from the bill and glared at his grinning mechanic, “Twelve hundred dollars?”

Merl brushed past them and reverently ran one hand over the Torino’s mangled hood. “Your lady will be ready two weeks from tomorrow. And…”

Starsky took a step back and raised both hands when Mel pinned him with a glare that warned him his life was in danger if he did not heed the words about to be spoken.

“Do not.” Mel lifted a finger and pointed it straight at him. “I repeat, **do** **NOT** be calling here day and night checking to see if she’s ready.”

Before another protest could be uttered, Merl snatched the keys from his lax grip. “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

With that the mechanic twirled around on one heel and strolled back inside the dark and mysterious confines of his garage. Someone turned on a radio, and soon the opening refrain of Otis Redding’s song _Sitting on the Dock of the Bay_ could be heard. Starsky took a moment to listen to the smooth sound of the singer’s voice but found the music did nothing to soothe his overwhelming frustration.

Swallowing hard, he turned his attention to his car. Tears welled up in his eyes as he, once again, catalogued the damage. “Twelve hundred dollars,” he whispered. Turning to his partner, he bemoaned his fate. “This has not been my year, Hutch. First Juli dumps me, then the IRS audits me, and now this.” He laid his forehead on the roof of his car and groaned. “It’s not fair, I tell ya. It’s just not fair.”

An arm that was welcomed more than its owner would ever realize settled down around his shoulders and hugged him briefly. “Who said anything about life being fair?” Hutch asked. “To quote Merl, ‘It is what it is.’”

Starsky rolled his eyes at his partner. “You’re no help, whatsoever.”

His hair was playfully ruffled and, for a moment, he forgot all his woes and lost himself in the innocent touch of his partner’s hand.

He loved it when Hutch touched him. Hell, to be honest, he loved everything Hutch did to him—the pats, the slaps, the punches, the hugs. Oh yeah, he particularly enjoyed the hugs.

He surreptitiously glanced at his handsome partner. Yesterday’s shocking epiphany had made him rethink a lot of things, and it came as no surprise when his feelings for Hutch rose to the top of the list. Too many memories, emotions, needs long suppressed were crowding his brain, vying for his attention, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he was up to dealing with them. Some feelings were better left alone, kept safely under lock and key. Yesterday’s accident had clearly proved that point.

And yet…

He glanced again at Hutch who was nodding his head in rhythm with the song.

What if he did act upon the revelation his brain had placed at his feet? Would it end his friendship with Hutch? Or would it open the door to a new relationship that would bond the two of them to each other in ways neither of them had ever contemplated? Was it worth the risk?

Smiling wryly, he gave himself a mental shake. Maybe he should do like Hutch, make like a pretzel and meditate. Go home, find a clean spot on the living room floor and meditate on this feeling of lov—

“…shouldn’t be insulting the one who’s gonna be hauling your butt back and forth to work. Keep it up, and you’ll be hoofing it.”

Hutch’s voice pulled Starsky away from thoughts guaranteed to put his brain and heart on permanent hold. Turning quickly, he caught his partner in a full body embrace and buried his nose in the baby-soft hair behind Hutch’s left ear. He pretended to sniff, as in blubber, not as in fill-his-senses with the best scent in the entire world.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, would ya?” he asked, throwing in another teary-sounding snivel for good measure. “Me being your best friend, your partner. You wouldn’t leave me stranded like that, would ya, Hutch?”

Pushed away none too gently, he grinned when Hutch took his turn at rolling of the eyes and heaved a mock sigh of frustration. His partner had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker.

“Next time you wreck your car because you were too busy watching the ladies,” Hutch complained good-naturedly, “don’t come crying to me.”

Starsky danced away from the fist aimed at his shoulder and treated the tall blond to one last hug. “Who said I was ogling the ladies? Not true, absolutely not true.” Brushing free a speck of dirt that clung to the passenger side door of the Torino, he took a moment to recall the accident that had changed his life forever.

 

+++++++ 

 

_“Rock me gently. Rock me slowly. Take it easy. Don’t you know… that I have never been loved like this before.”_

Singing at the top of his lungs, Starsky rolled down the driver’s side window so that he could appreciate the unusually cool weather that was visiting the area. His day had been as perfect as perfect could be considering he and Hutch had spent the last 72 hours chasing down leads that had led them absolutely nowhere on their current case. Despite their lack of progress, Dobey had graciously, albeit begrudgingly, agreed to their request for a day off.

A huge yawn manifested itself at the thought of the 24 glorious work-free hours he was about to enjoy. Once he was finished showing off his tonsils to the neighborhood, he finished off his yawn with a huge grin. Yep, he was tired. Hell, he was more than tired. Wiped out and running on fumes that were almost non-existent.

Coming to a stop at the red light, he spared a moment’s thought for his partner. His exhaustion was nothing compared to Hutch’s. Not only had his partner put in a major amount overtime as one of L.A.’s finest detectives, but he’d also spent the last five evenings tending bar for one of their best friends.

It had been one week ago when Huggy’s cousin, Alberto, The Pits’ regular bartender, had unexpectedly requested time off. His wife, who was eight months pregnant with their first child, had been placed on strict bedrest due to escalating blood pressure. Alberto confessed, rather ashamedly, that it was his wife who had insisted he take time off from work. Seemed the beautiful Shametria would rather suffer her husband’s anxious company than be coddled by her meddling, busybody of a mother-in-law.

Both he and his partner had been sitting at the bar when Alberto unloaded his news on Huggy. Once the four of them stopped laughing, he had immediately stepped up to the plate with Hutch a close second. They figured that if they each took a week at a time, they could cover for the popular Jamaican until his wife gave birth. Huggy had been more than happy to agree and put Hutch, the winner of the coin toss, to work that very night.

Fortunately for him, Alberto’s wife had gone into labor early, thus saving him from looking the fool because although he could draw beer with the best of them, he didn’t have the first clue about mixing drinks. His magnanimous partner, on the other hand, had agreed to finish his week out so that Alberto could spend some time at home with his wife and new son.

“Good old Hutch. Forever working on that halo of yours, aren’t ya?”

He put the Torino in gear and sped off down the street. He had just delivered one, dead-on-his feet Blond Blintz to his apartment and was hurrying home so that he could catch Howard Cossell’s take on the night’s game. His mother’s favorite football team, the New York Giants, was in town, and he’d promised to watch so that they could discuss its merits when he made his weekly call home.

“Wonder if ‘what’s his name’ is off the injured list and gonna play tonight?” Leaning slightly to the right so that he could snag the sports section Hutch had accidentally forgotten in his drowsy state of exit, he let his gaze linger on the pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk.

“What the hell?”

Slowing the Torino to a crawl, he took a closer look at the man standing near a parked hotdog stand and then, much to his surprise, looked again. It was downright spooky how much the guy looked like his partner. In fact, if he didn’t know for a fact that he had just put Hutch to bed, he’d have sworn he was looking at his best friend.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he kept right on looking, using the rear-view mirror as a means to check out the stranger’s uncanny resemblance.

“Unbelievable.”

Newspaper forgotten, he leaned closer to the rear-view mirror. His curious gaze swept south of the border and was now fixated on the generous package the man sported. Not only did the tight cords he was wearing blatantly showcase it, but they also left no room for misinterpretation of the gent’s religion.

Unwilling to examine his sudden and uncharacteristic interest in another man’s tools, he forced his gaze back to the man’s face. Again he was hit by how much the stranger looked like Hutch. His brain, which had obviously taken note of his fascination, agreed with him and unloaded an image of his partner’s own robust package.

Without warning, indecent thoughts began dancing around in his head and in his crotch, triggering a swift and unexpected reaction. He gasped aloud when jeans that were already tight, grew tighter, tight to the point of emasculation. 

“Shit!”

So shocked by what he could only deem as a sudden sexual identity crisis, he actually forgot he was driving down a busy street. Blood that should have been nourishing his grey matter rushed at breakneck speed to his stone-hard boner. His lower brain took over all mental functions and gleefully supplied him with a shocking vision of himself going down on Hutch’s bad boy.

He felt his mouth fall open when his hips lifted off the seat in search of satisfaction.

“Fuck!”

Helpless against the onslaught of unfamiliar emotions and thoughts, he gave himself over to the image of Hutch feeding him his rod. He moaned when that idea inspired other, more erotic images to take shape inside his skull.

“Yes. God, Hutch, yes.”

Voracious hunger swept over him, and he swore he could taste the velvet steel plundering his mouth. Jerking his eyes open, he stared wildly at his surroundings. “Wait! I can’t, I mean, I’m not…. WATCH OUT!”

Yelling his head off, he slammed on the brakes both mentally and literally, but it was too late. Not only was his crotch soaked with the evidence of his uncharacteristic thoughts, but his beloved Torino was making nice with an unmovable object, specifically a telephone pole.

Collapsing in his seat after assuring himself that no innocent bystanders had been injured, he radioed for a black and white and a tow truck. Looking up, he shook his head in bewilderment as the person responsible for the accident sauntered by, totally unaware of the upheaval he’d caused.

“Go on. Go on about your business,” he instructed the good-looking stranger. “I’ll just sit here and contemplate the incredible U-turn my life just took.”

Once again his traitorous gaze zeroed in on Hutch’s doppelganger. Countless seconds passed while he assessed the taut muscles that twitched back and forth with each step the man took away from him.

“Nice ass,” he muttered, then immediately groaned with dismay when he realized what he’d said. Just when in the hell had he started appreciating the beauty of a man’s rear end? Women, yes. But men? Never. At least not until today.

He redirected his gaze to the rear caboose of the nearby hotdog vendor. Nothing. Absolutely nothing -- no illicit thoughts, no hardening of the flesh – zilch, zero, nadda.

He shifted his gaze once more, returning it to the stranger. Then why? Why did this man of all men cause him to throw a rod?

_Because he reminds you of Hutch, you moron._

Starsky waved a hand at his obviously befuddled brain. ‘Of course, he reminds me of Hutch,’ he informed his mental self. ‘That dude could be his twin. What’s it got to do with this?’ He pointed at the mountain of flesh firming once again between his thighs.

_Think again, Sweetheart._

Rubbing both hands over his face, he did as he was instructed and cursed loud and long when faced with the irrefutable truth of his feelings.

Somehow during the last few months things had changed between him and Hutch. Their friendship had, without him knowing, evolved into something he would never in a million years have thought possible.

Love.

He was, without a doubt, in love with his very sexy and very **male** partner.

Shit.

 

+++++++

 

Sparing one last look at his car, Starsky shut down the memory and hurried after his friend. “I’m telling ya, Hutch, that telephone pole came out of nowhere. It was the strangest thing.”

Hutch glanced over his shoulder and arched one eyebrow. “Yeah, you got to watch out for those things. Tricky devils, aren’t they?”

“Huh?” Starsky yanked his wandering eyes away from the perfect curves of his partner’s ass. As much as he was enjoying the scenery, it wouldn’t bode well for him if Hutch caught him ogling the merchandise. It was bad enough his brain kept reminding him of his unexpected change in perspective. No use adding physical injury to the equation.

“Uh, yeah, man,” he finally managed to say. “You got that right. Damn things are tricky, indeed.” Shifting his gaze to a more respectable body part, he blew a kiss at the back of his friend’s neck.

Hutch stopped dead in his tracks, and for a moment Starsky feared his partner had caught sight of his asinine behavior. He sighed with relief when the man resumed walking forward.

“Have you figured out how you’re gonna pay for the repairs?”

Hutch waved him toward the passenger side of his vehicle. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Starsky took a seat in the battered old car. “Haven’t a clue, Blondie. Money’s so tight right now, my wallet is squeaking.”

It took three attempts before the engine caught. Putting his vehicle into gear, Hutch silenced him with the lift of one eyebrow. “Don’t you **dare** say a word.”

Starsky threw both hands in the air. “Me? Criticize your outstanding means of transportation? Hutch, I’m wounded.”

Blue eyes rolled again, and this time Starsky laughed aloud. His laughter died a swift death when his partner once again reminded him of his financial straits.

“Seriously, Starsk, do you need me to float you some dough?” Hutch asked.

Starsky reached across the seat and squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy, but I’ll make it. May have to cut back on the beer and pizza, but I’ll get by.”

Hutch eased his car into traffic before turning to grin at him. “Hey, it’s too bad _Ramóne_ can’t get back his old job at Ginger’s dance studio.”

Keeping his hand firmly attached to Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky echoed the laughter as they drove away. “Yeah, too bad.”

 

+++++++

 

“How’s it hanging, my man?”

Starsky threw down his pen and scrubbed his unshaven face with both hands. “It’s dragging in the dirt, Huggy.”

“That bad?” Huggy accepted his statement at face value and served the couple that sat next to his table.

Starsky watched the practiced moves that delivered the food without a single crumb being spilt. He was still staring at a perfectly constructed hamburger when Huggy shifted his attention back to him. He forced a smile at the look of concern on his friend’s face. Was he that obvious? Did Huggy truly understand just how literal his answer had been?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the last two weeks. His sexual prowess with the ladies was definitely a thing of the past. Nothing and no one had stirred his hunger since he’d discovered his feelings for Hutch, and the good Lord knew exactly how hard he had tried to stir things _up_.

Each night a different lady and a different bed. Unfortunately, for both himself and his companion, every bed he fell upon remained in pristine condition. No matter how hard he tried or how hard he concentrated, each and every night ended the same, with little Davey utterly disinterested and limp as a wet noodle.

Of course, it was a different story the second Hutch stepped into view. One look at those baby blues and wham, little Davey was saluting like nobody’s business. His Pavlov response had gotten so bad that he soon had to take matters into his own hands. Each time he rushed for the men’s restroom, he couldn’t help but pray that his constant need to masturbate wouldn’t lead to permanent blindness. He had enough on his plate as it was.

Shoving across the table the pad of paper he’d been scribbling figures on for the past two hours, he looked up at his good friend and confidant. “No matter how I figure it, I can’t make it work. It’s either eat or pay Merl.” He slid down in his seat and stared forlornly at the bills and bank statements spread across the brightly colored tablecloth. “Every damn penny is spent before I even earn it.”

“How ‘bout working some overtime?” Huggy handed over a fresh beer before taking a seat next to him.

Grabbing for his pen, Starsky gripped it tight enough to break. “I’m already pulling extra shifts at the precinct to pay off what I owe Uncle Sam,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“Not to mention, Dobie won’t approve any more overtime.” He took a sip of beer, then rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the permanent ache that had settled between them. He was beyond tired, and as far as he could see, there was no end in sight to his financial dilemma.

“What about Hutch? What’s he got to say?”

Starsky didn’t have to force another smile. This one came on its own at the mention of his partner’s name. “You know Hutch. Says I should’ve done like all those financial experts recommend.”

“And just what do those so-called experts say us regular Joes need to do?” Huggy waved one of his waitresses over and asked that she bring them both a _Huggy Special_. He pushed aside the crumpled dollars shoved in his direction. “My treat.”

“ ’Preciate it, man,” Starsky thanked his generous friend before answering the question posed seconds earlier. “Ah, you know what they say. Have at least three months salary saved, in case of losing your job or,” he indicated the stack of bills, “in case of an accident, illness, or something like that.”

“And no doubt Hutch has followed this sage advice?”

Starsky let slip a wry smile. “No doubt.”

To be honest, his ever frugal partner had once again offered him a loan, but he’d declined. Their friendship was too important to jeopardize just because he hadn’t properly planned for unforeseen expenditures.

Huggy rescued the pen he was intent on bending in half. “What about taking on a second job?”

“You offering?” He gazed expectantly at his long-time friend. “Alberto wouldn’t happen to need another vacation now, would he?”

Huggy clasped his arm. “Sorry, bro. Wish he did.” The thin, black man frowned as he glanced around the bar. “I am loath to confess, but this exceptional establishment has yet to fill the coffers with a substantial amount of dough.” He took the two steaming plates of food handed to him and placed them on the table. “My cousin, Leroy, swears the books are so drenched in red ink that I may soon have no choice but to close the doors.”

“Sorry to hear that, Huggy,” Starsky commiserated before attacking his food. “I know how hard you’ve worked on the place.”

Conversation was put on hold while the two of them ate, and it wasn’t until a new customer entered the bar that he allowed his attention to drift away from his current woes.

The moustached man was tall, broad-shouldered and obviously considered himself God’s gift to women from the way he struck a calculated pose once inside the door.

“Think again, Mister,” Starsky muttered.

Returning his attention to the man’s attire, he noted the tight slacks and the open shirt that reminded him of those swashbuckling pirate characters featured in the late night movies he liked to watch. Emerald green in color, the shirt not only emphasized the man’s dark looks but also showcased the thicket of black hair covering his chest. Reluctantly, he found himself mesmerized by the chunky gold chain the man wore around his neck, and he especially appreciated the way it nestled between a pair of well-defined pectorals.

Laughter spilled from the stranger’s generous lips when his gaze lit upon the circle of friends waiting for him. He paused another moment, no doubt allowing friends and strangers alike to feast upon his good looks. Once satisfied with his due, he sauntered across the bar, grabbed up his curvaceous date and bent her over his arm.

Starsky was immediately hit with a feeling of déjà vu. “Well I’ll be….” He continued to stare while the man took his seat at the crowded table. “If that’s not a sign from my guardian angel, then I don’t know what is.”

“What are you mumbling about?” Huggy asked.

Ignoring his confused friend, he liberated his wallet from his back pocket and searched through the wrinkled pieces of papers stuffed inside. A smile broke out on his face when he located a business card emblazoned with print that could be seen in the dark it was so bright pink. “Be right back.”

He hurried to the payphone and dialed a number his brain had memorized in an instant.

“Hello? Can I speak to Ginger Evans? Tell her it’s….” He glanced over his shoulder at the handsome stranger and grinned when coffee-colored eyes gazed quizzically back at him. “Tell her it’s Ramóne calling.”

 

+++++++

 

“Come on, Starsk, give. What’s in the bag?”

Starsky sidestepped his partner’s hand as he passed through the department’s doors. “It’s a garment bag, you bozo. What do you think is in it?”

“You’re a funny guy. Ha, ha.” Hutch made another unsuccessful grab. “Ever think about taking your act on the road?”

Offering his best smile to the beautiful brunette blocking the way to his desk, Starsky answered, “Looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. What’s eating you?”

The newly hired clerical clerk standing in his way appeared stunned. Instead of moving to the side and allowing him to pass, she stood frozen in place, her hazel-green eyes firmly fixated on his mouth. He smiled again and added an ‘Excuse me’ for good measure. The woman didn’t budge. Frustrated, he turned around and swore beneath his breath when he found his retreat blocked by one unrelenting partner.

“Do you mind?” he asked, slapping Hutch’s hand away from the garment bag’s zipper.

“If you want to know the truth,” Hutch declared, “I do mind. What’s in the bag?” 

Glancing back over his shoulder, Starsky growled softly. The new girl was still standing in his way; and between her and Hutch, he was effectively hemmed in.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. Throwing the garment bag over one shoulder, he clambered up on the long table he and Hutch shared with several other detectives. He then carefully tiptoed toward his designated spot, apologizing right and left for the path of destruction left in his wake. Reaching his seat, he jumped down and waved triumphantly at his partner who, at the moment, was trying his best to maneuver around the stage-struck clerk.

Making the most of Hutch’s predicament, Starsky slipped inside his captain’s vacant office and hung his garment bag on the coat rack located to the side of the door. Dobie was on vacation at the moment, and his temporary replacement was downtown at a council meeting.

“Everything okay in there?” he asked, lowering the zipper and peering at the clothes he now deemed his _Ramóne_ outfit. He discovered the ruffles on his shirt needed fluffing, but other than that, everything seemed good to go.

“Or should I say, good to tango?” he inquired of his new uniform. A wolfish smile took shape as he considered the job he would be starting that very afternoon.

Contrary to Hutch’s belief, he had actually enjoyed working undercover at Ginger Evans’s dance studio. Back when he was eight years old, his beloved mother had insisted on him taking lessons at the local Arthur Murray studio. And even though he had passionately hated those lessons as a youth, the same did not hold true once he discovered the female gender.

Women absolutely loved a man who could dance, and he took full advantage of that fact. Not only did his grace on the dance floor score him major points with the ladies, but more often than not, landed him in their beds.

“Starsk! What in the hell are you doing in there?”

Lost in the memory of dancing cheek to cheek with the one and only gorgeous Anna Marie Carbo, Starsky was caught off guard by his partner’s irate voice. He jerked backwards and, in the process, accidentally dislodged the garment bag from its hook. Down to the floor it fell.

Once the bag hit the tile floor, its flaps flew open, revealing both shirt and vest. A different version of the image he had been contemplating seconds earlier filled his head, and for the life of him, he didn’t know if it was Hutch’s voice that had inspired it or the clothes he now stood staring at.

Squatting down, he sank his fingers in the newly starched ruffles and closed his eyes, permitting his imagination to run rampant with the thought of him and Hutch dancing cheek to cheek.

It would be utter perfection, he thought, their bodies swaying together, both in total sync with each other. He would lead, of course, would hold Hutch tight, tuck his head so that he could nuzzle that sweet spot behind the ear. Maybe they’d start with something slow, allow the music to dictate their movements while their hearts dictated their loving.

Oh, and it would most definitely be the best loving, he agreed with a nod of his head.

He could almost taste Hutch’s kisses, feel the press of his chest, his groin, his arms as they circled his back and pulled him impossibly close. Maybe they’d whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ear and then share foolish grins when their mumblings turned to pure mush.

Collecting the garment bag and zipping it closed, he rose to his feet and hooked it back on the coat rack before lightly sliding his hands along its shoulders. “Mush is perfectly okay with me,” he declared with a chuckle. “Especially if it’s followed up with a kiss or two or three.”

Closing his eyes again, he pretended it was Hutch’s shoulders he was gripping. Together they swayed side to side, their bodies brushing against each other, tempting each other with the physical evidence of their passion.

He pressed forward and groaned when met by an unyielding solidness. “Ah, Hutch,” he whispered while furtively humping the undeniable proof of his best friend’s desire. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“Cared?” Hutch shoved his way into the room. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Starsky snapped his eyes open and came face to face with the imaginary dance partner of his dreams. Heat flooded his cheeks when he dared a glance below his belt and saw exactly who or, to be more precise, what had provided him with such exquisite pleasure. The coat rack hit the wall with a resounding whack.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” He busied himself with righting the tilted coat rack and straightening the now lopsided hanging garment bag. He hoped the ten seconds it took him to accomplish the task was enough time to soothe the savage beast hammering at the zipper of his jeans.

It wasn’t.

“Why the hell should I knock?” Hutch asked angrily once he got all the way through the door. “Nobody’s here. Nobody but you and that darn bag.”

Starsky welcomed the harder than normal slap on the shoulder. Hell, to be honest, he wouldn’t have minded if Hutch had hauled off and punched him in the gut. Anything to get his mind off the disobliging woody in his pants.

“You ever gonna show me what’s inside? Is it that much of a secret?”

Hutch moved back a step; and when Starsky glanced over his shoulder at his partner, he found the blond scowling at him. “Oh hell, if you must know….” He unzipped the garment bag and stood to the side, allowing Hutch a look at the clothes inside. Closing his eyes, he waited for the sarcastic comments he knew were headed his way.

True to form, he didn’t have long to wait. Astonishingly enough though, the words that came out of Hutch’s mouth were anything but sarcastic. “You are not…. Tell me you’re not… no way in hell are you….”

Blazing blue eyes pinned Starsky to the wall, sending an indescribable thrill up his spine. “Spit it out. Come on, I know you can do it.”

He returned his friend’s glare with as much intensity if not more. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Was Hutch actually objecting to his new job? And if so, why? What was wrong with him working as a dance instructor?

“What are you trying to say?” he questioned.

Hutch gestured angrily at the clothes inside the garment bag. He even went as far as to disdainfully flick several ruffles with one finger “Forget it, Starsk. I won’t allow it.”

The thrill from earlier quickly developed into irritation. “What do you mean **you** won’t allow it?” he asked. Slapping Hutch’s hand away from his shirt, he zippered shut the garment bag with a little more force than necessary. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time I checked, my **mother** was still living in New York.” Turning around, he placed himself between his partner and the garment bag. “Where the hell do you get off telling me what I can and can’t do?”

Hutch’s gaze remained fixated on the garment bag, and what he said next pushed Starsky that much closer to retaliating with something more than words.

“I don’t give a shit what you say. You are not going back to that dance studio. That’s final.”

His partner’s declaration of _that’s final_ was like waving a red flag in front of his nose, and within five seconds flat, Starsky was standing toe to toe with Hutch, ready to beat some sense into that thick skull of his.

“Listen, Bub.” Again he was drawn to his friend’s startling blue eyes, and what he saw put the brakes on the tightly clenched fist he was banging against his left thigh.

Taking a very deep breath, he took a step back and slowly let the air of his lungs. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he’d seen glittering in the depths of Hutch’s eyes; but if, by the off chance, it was what he thought it was, belting his partner in the jaw wasn’t exactly the right thing to do.

He forced opened his fist. “I need the money, Hutch,” he reminded his partner, “and Ginger was more than happy to hire me on a temporary basis.” Ignoring the sound of Hutch’s labored breathing, he ran a hand through his hair and took another step back. “It’s easy money, and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of this opportunity to get myself out of debt.”

“Over my dead body. Take advantage? You know who’s gonna be taking advantage? Those women. I just bet they’ll love taking advantage of….”

Eyes wide with disbelief, he watched his friend walk over to Dobey’s desk and pound it with his fist. Hutch continued to rant and rave, but Starsky was no longer listening to his objections. He was too busy examining the proof his eyes and ears were presenting to him.

 _Sweet Jesus_ , he thought with amazement. _Hutch is jealous. My partner, my very best friend, is jealous. Jealous of what? Some old biddie who doesn’t know how to do the_ _foxtrot?_

He reviewed the number of women he had danced with at Ginger’s studio. Most had been years older than himself -- women whose husbands were too busy or too indifferent to their spouse’s needs. Rarely had he been paired with younger women.

 _Wait_ _one darn minute_. Starsky snapped his fingers. He suddenly remembered the luscious Dara Lynn, who, if his memory served him right, had rather enjoyed being dipped and swirled by the mysterious Ramóne. She had slipped him her phone number after only their second lesson, and as usual, he had bragged about it to his partner later that evening. Hutch had merely rolled his eyes and made the usual sarcastic remark about his Lothario ways.

He snuck another look at his partner. Hutch was now holding a conversation with the file cabinet.

“If you think for one minute I’m going to stand by and let those hussies fawn all over you, well, you’ve got another think coming.” He slapped the side of the metal cabinet with a little too much gusto. The blow caused the drawers to rattle. “As I said earlier, no way in he—”

“You love me.”

Starsky walked over to where Hutch was standing and smiled at the dumbstruck look on the blond’s face before gently closing his open mouth. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me you’re not acting like a jealous lover.”

There was no other explanation he could think of. It had to be love, the kind of love that went way beyond friendship. He, of course, had no problem with that concept, but what about Hutch? Did his partner truly understand the reason for his behavior?

“You love me,” he repeated.

This time the declaration was softer, more intimate. He wanted to see how Hutch would react; therefore, he deliberately dropped his voice into the husky octave that normally paved the way for a reward his lips were more than ready to receive. Sadly enough, the payback was not what he expected.

Hutch jerked his head back as if slapped. Immediately the glitter of jealousy was replaced by the light of confusion and what could only be described as fear.

Starsky instinctively reached out a hand to his friend. His offer of comfort was irrefutably refused.

Straightening to his full height, Hutch swiftly moved to the door. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say you’re crazy, but,” he took careful possession of the doorknob and turned it, “you are wrong.”

Starsky swore he could actually feel his heart shatter into tiny pieces. It hurt like hell. “But you said, I thought…. Wait one damn minute.”

“Dead wrong, Starsk. You’re dead wrong.”

Starsky stared after his fleeing partner. “You dumb blond piece of---”

The forceful shutting of the door not only silenced his retort but also shut down all his hopes.

“Fuck.”

 

+++++++

 

_One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours._

Noting how much time remained before they reached his place, Starsky bit his tongue and tried to figure out exactly how many minutes had passed since Hutch had shut him down cold.

 _One-sixty-eight times sixty. Okay, there’s the zero, then six times eight, carry the four. Add it_ _to_ _– ah, forget it._

Starsky turned to face his partner and dropped the bomb.

“I’m in love with you.”

Of course, it went without saying that he had waited until the appropriate time to deliver his surprising news. They weren’t barrelling ninety miles an hour down the freeway chasing after bad guys. Hutch wasn’t towering over him with a loaded gun in his hand. And there was no one around to witness the kisses he planned on unleashing upon his partner once said partner parked his car and accepted the inevitable.

Perfect timing, thank you, ma’am.

“Yep, that’s it in a nutshell,” he declared with a smug grin on his face. “I’m in love with you.”

Hutch tore the keys out of the ignition and exited the car as if the devil himself was on his tail.

Starsky stared after him in confusion. Why the hasty exit? It wasn’t like they were at work; they were parked outside his digs, for heaven’s sake. It wouldn’t kill ‘em to have their little tête-à-tête in the car. Shoot, if everything went well, they could even neck a bit before retiring to the comfy bed fifty yards up the walk.

What the hell was Hutch’s problem?

Forcing open the rusted passenger door, he hurried after his partner. “Did you hear me, Hutch? I said I’m in love with you.”

Having reached the front stoop, he scooted past the blond hulk blocking his way and unlocked the door. “It’s really not a big deal, come to think about it.” He stepped inside and let out a small sigh of relief when Hutch followed.

“I mean, yeah, it _is_ a big deal. Us, two guys, getting it on with each other. I know it’s not,” he used his fingers to create quotation marks in the air, “uh _socially acceptable_ and no doubt, we’ll get our chops busted more than once. But hell, it’s love, and you sure can’t fight what your heart’s telling you now, can ya?”

Hutch looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Starsky ignored the look he’d seen more times than he could count and moved toward the kitchen. He snagged two beers and tossed one over his shoulder. When he turned around, he found Hutch staring at the glass bottle as if he’d never seen one before.

“It’s obvious you love me. Why else would you have reacted like you did when you found out I was working at Ginger’s?”

He handed over the bottle opener to Hutch. When it wasn’t taken, he set his drink aside and flipped the cap off Hutch’s beer. “Here ya go. I think you need this.”

Once Hutch took his beer, Starsky collected his own and took a huge swallow of the cold brew. He followed it with another and then another. Soon the bottle was empty. Feeling his courage needed a bit more bolstering, he snatched the untouched bottle from Hutch’s hand and quickly emptied it. During the entire time it took for him to finish both beers, he noticed his partner had yet to speak. Maybe it was time to let their actions do the talking.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered.

Grabbing Hutch by his shoulders, he plastered himself against his partner and kissed the hell out of him. By the time he was finished demonstrating his feelings, the world had turned grey around the edges, and his biceps were screaming with pain from being clutched too hard by familiar hands.

“Wow,” he exclaimed. Wiping the spit from his chin, he couldn’t help but grin with success. French kissing another man was messy business, but damn if it didn’t set his soul on fire.

“Now, if that’s not a kiss of love, then I don’t know what is.” He loosened his grip so that he could shift his hands from Hutch’s wide shoulders to his broad chest. He was working on one very obstinate button when his plan to debauch his best friend was totally derailed.

“Hey! Where ya going?”

In the blink of an eye, Hutch had crossed the room and was standing at the exit with one hand on the doorknob. He looked back over his shoulder and, for the first time since their arrival, spoke.

“I can’t do this.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Starsky asked with just a hint of irritation.

Hutch opened the door and fled into the darkness.

Starsky walked to the door and ever so slowly closed it. “Well, that went well.” Frustration, anger and grief took hold of his heart and crushed it effortlessly the second the safety bolt slid shut. He retaliated by putting his fist through the mirror that hung above the key rack next to the door.

He stared at his injured hand and couldn’t help but think the blood dripping from his injured knuckles had to match the blood dripping from his wounded heart. The poetic imagery elicited laughter that was as bleak as the eyes that refused to shed tears.

“Love sucks.”

 

+++++++

 

Starsky collapsed in the nearest chair with a groan that spoke volumes. His dogs were barking. Nope, make that howling, and it didn’t matter one iota that the chair he had chosen was as hard as rock. Anything that got him off his aching feet was more than worthy of his complete and utter adoration.

“Link, Bobbie.” He nodded a greeting to the husband and wife team of dance instructors standing next to the coffee pot. He then glanced around the nearly deserted break room before shucking off his shoes. Immediately the smell had him wrinkling his nose, and he mumbled an apology to his colleagues.

“Sorry about the stink.”

Link waved away his apology, asking instead, “Finished your lesson with Mrs. Fowler?”

Starsky nodded. “Thank God she’s leaving on vacation in the morning. I don’t think my feet could survive another lesson.” He worked the toes of his left foot, flexing them back and forth in an effort to see if any of them were broken. The rather robust Mrs. Fowler possessed more enthusiasm than skill, and all ten of his tootsies were paying the price.

“There’s a basin under the sink if you want to slip in a short soak between clients,” Bobbie informed him.

“Thanks. I might just take you up on that offer.”

“No thanks necessary. It’s a matter of survival,” the large-busted blonde answered with an understanding smile. Collecting her coffee mug and her husband’s arm, she left the room with Link in tow.

Hoping a cup of java would put some pep back into his sway, Starsky stood and hobbled over to the coffee pot. “I don’t think my feet have ever hurt this much, not even when I was walking a beat.” He poured himself a cup of the strong brew and quickly resumed his seat.

Pulling a second chair close, he propped his feet up and let loose a sigh of appreciation. “Now, if I could just get Mrs. Spicuzzi to go on vacation.”

Much to his delight and dismay, women by the dozens had signed up for lessons the second the word got out that _Ramóne_ had returned to Ginger’s dance studio. He was only working four hours every evening and yet, each and every hour was always booked. Rarely did he have the luxury to sit and rest between clients as many of the other instructors did.

He dug in his back pocket and pulled out what he called his ‘dance card’. He flipped to the day’s date and discovered every time slot in the small book had a name written next to it. “Great, another busy evening,” he murmured.

Wiggling his toes experimentally, he checked to see if they were ready for another round of abuse. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he informed his aching feet. “A busy dance card means lots of tips, and lots of tips means Uncle Sam won’t come calling for the Torino.”

Without warning the smile slipped from his lips. Yeah, a busy dance card equaled extra pay. It also equaled total exhaustion, both physically and mentally, which, in an odd sense, was a god send. It kept his libido in check and his brain too tired to think.

Too tired to think about Hutch.

It had been two weeks of cold shoulders and cold showers and, honestly, he didn’t know how much more of either he could take. The nightly showers had done little to cool his passion. Not to mention, he was looking more and more like a prune. Of course that particular problem could be remedied if he’d stop whacking off in the shower. On the other hand, he was so damn tired of doing laundry.

He shook his head. Semen-soaked sheets versus the Abominable Prune Monster. There was no contest. He’d just stock up on moisturizer.

Now, the cold shoulders, well, that was something he didn’t care for at all, and yet, he knew it wasn’t something he could fix on his own. It didn’t take a genius to realize the silent treatment was Hutch’s way of dealing with his feelings. Sort of like, ignore the problem long enough and it’ll all go away.

Gazing off into the distance, he unconsciously rubbed the middle of his chest. “Hate to tell ya, partner,” he whispered to his absent friend, “but I’m not going away, and I’m not gonna stop feeling the way I do. I mean, if you can’t reciprocate, then fine. I’ll learn how to deal with it. But I can tell you right now that these feelings, this love I have for you, is here to stay. Period.”

Another sigh, heavily laden with loneliness and frustration, rumbled out of him. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, but he really did miss hanging with Hutch. The after-work meals they shared, the sometimes profound, sometimes inconsequential conversations they engaged in over an ice-cold beer and pizza were some of the best moments of his day. They were like the air and food he needed to survive, and it was killing him to be without.

To be honest, it wasn’t as if Hutch had totally turned his back on him. They were still the best damn pair of detectives the city had ever seen, doing their job as if nothing had happened. They still ate lunch together, harassed Dobey and pumped Huggy for info. They were still Starsky and Hutch, the best of friends, the best of partners doing their job. But the second their shift was over and he slid into the passenger seat of Hutch’s car for the ride to Ginger’s studio, their entire relationship changed. His best friend took on the personality of a clam. He shut down, refused to talk. Hell, he even refused to look at him. It truly was as if a stranger was giving him a lift.

“Damn it, Hutch. It’s not like I’m gonna nail you to the mattress if you show me some affection. But then again….”

He dropped a hand to his crotch and cupped his manhood. The urge to possess, to claim what he knew to be his, was smouldering just below the surface. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he would jump Hutch’s bones if given the right motivation.

He stood abruptly, causing his chair to tip over and crash to the floor. “God, if I could just fuck somebody.”

Glancing at the clock, he noticed he had about forty-five minutes before his dinner break was over. Suddenly he was hit with the need for fresh air. Within seconds he was down the stairs and out the side door, his back braced against the studio’s brick wall while he labored to refill his lungs with oxygen.

“Rough day?”

Shaking his head to clear his blurred vision, Starsky turned to his right and encountered the answer to his prayer.

“Name’s Jack,” the gorgeous stranger said with the barest of smiles.

Like himself, the man had his back braced against the wall of the building opposite the dance studio. His western dress clearly indicated he was a visitor to the city. A midnight-black Stetson pulled low drew his gaze to the stranger’s rugged features. Drawn by curiosity, he took a step closer. The Stetson was pushed back and sky-blue eyes perfectly situated over a crooked nose and thick moustache stared back at him. They blazed with the hint of something his body instantly responded to.

“Starsky. Dave Starsky. You’re not from around here, are ya?”

The corner of the stranger’s generous mouth again lifted. “Texas. I’m here on business.”

Thoughts of rough and rugged cattlemen wearing their battered Stetsons, sitting on their horses, dressed in sweat-soaked denim shirts, Wrangler jeans and dust-covered leather chaps took shape inside his brain. They brought to mind the image of one particular undercover blond, complete with hat, god-awful accent and boots.

Damn.

Excruciating misery slammed into his chest like a prize-fighter’s fist. Ignoring the pain, Starsky looked down past the sapphire-blue flannel shirt, the large silver belt buckle to the hand hooked by its thumb in the left pocket of the man’s tight-fitting Levis. He frowned when he saw the pale strip of flesh on Jack’s ring finger. Was the man separated, divorced or playing the field while away from home? Did he even care?

He dared a look at the man’s eyes and found their dark intensity focused entirely on him. “Hope you enjoy your visit.”

“No doubt I will.” Jack’s lips curved seductively. “That’s if you’re interested in showing the sights to a stranger.”

The way Jack emphasized the word _sights_ left no room for misunderstanding. Starsky knew exactly what was being hinted at and couldn’t help but gasp when Jack widened his stance and blatantly readjusted himself. Biting back the answer that immediately rose to his lips, he straddled the fence of indecision for a moment longer.

He was lonely, for God’s sake. And as far as he could tell, Hutch might never cross over to his side of the street. Should he wait forever? And if he did take Jack up on his offer, what would it hurt? It wasn’t like he was cheating on a love that might never see the light of fruition.

 _Who the hell cares?_ his long-deprived dick replied. _You’re horny. He’s willing. Go for it._

As if in total agreement, the crotch across from him developed a very healthy interest in his perusal of its contours.

It was the match that lit the fire that, within the span of a heartbeat, roared out of control.

Unaware of just who moved first, Starsky took possession of Jack’s arm and pulled him into the darkened alley that ran between the buildings. They found a vacant doorway flanked by two parked delivery trucks.

His cop mentality raised its head for a brief second. “You sure about this? If anyone should see us---”

“Live dangerously, Dave. For once.”

Thoughts of his past and the dangerous situations he recklessly found himself in on a routine basis made him let loose a chuckle totally devoid of mirth.

“You have no idea.”

A single second to check for onlookers was spared before he disappeared into the shadows devouring Jack’s mouth.

Starsky tasted whiskey, cigarettes and lust. The flavors were savored and explored in the same manner as Jack’s broad shoulders, his smooth chest and the puckered nubs that scored the palms of his hands despite the layer of thin flannel. The sharp planes of a knee forced its way between his thighs and roughly nudged his balls. He relaxed his stance and grunted when Jack dropped his knee and palmed his crotch instead.

The tongue investigating his ear formed words that were carried on an unsteady breath of hot air. “Jesus Christ, you’re hung. Hung like my prize bull back home.”

The heat of embarrassment warmed his cheeks, but Starsky ignored it. He was too busy trying to figure out how to undo the ornate belt buckle preventing him access to the all important zipper. Callused fingers pried his hands away.

“Later,” Jack promised. “Right now I want a taste of what you’re packing.”

Cool air and rough denim assaulted his manhood seconds later. It set his heart to pounding so loud he was hard pressed to hear what Jack was saying. It was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling once his brain finally wrapped itself around the coarse, heated words caressing his rod.

“Damn, I could feast on this forever.”

The deep, husky cadence of Jack’s voice immediately dropped Starsky into a memory he had no wish to relive, especially at this moment but his brain wasn’t listening. The doorway, the shadowed alleyway, Jack – all of it faded into the background, pushed back by the memory of Hutch, lying naked beside him, the two of them not only sharing a bed but also sharing the intimate affections of the Anderson twins. Even as he had fucked that night’s partner into a shattering orgasm, his senses had remained focused on Hutch, listening to his passion-filled voice, watching the play of muscle beneath skin tanned a light bronze, mesmerized by his partner’s masterful act of possession.

His body responded to the images provoked by the memory and within seconds his dick was hard as a rock and slapping the underside of his belly. Jack was soon rubbing his cheek against the turgid flesh of his erection and Starsky groaned with both appreciation and disappointment – appreciation because, God, yes, he needed the release; disappointment because reality had laid waste to a cherished memory.

He forced open his eyes and stared down at Jack, grounding both himself and his heart in the truth of the moment at hand.

“Jack, please,” he hoarsely encouraged.

“Tell me you want me to blow you,” Jack demanded. “Hell, tell me you’ll go back with me to my hotel room.”

Starsky couldn’t help himself; he jerked forward and cursed repeatedly when his rod was denied access to Heaven. “Fuck! Fuck!”

His companion chuckled at his coarseness. “Somebody wants in, I take it?”

Teeth nipped at the tip of his dick and Starsky responded by shoving forward again.

Jack gripped him by the hips and stilled his frantic movements. “When we get back to the room, I’ll want you to fuck me first. Okay? Dave?”

Starsky could barely remember his name, much less talk. He tapped Jack’s head, hoping the man would understand.

Jack obviously got the message and took hold of his dick and let it ride his grip while smearing along its length the milky tears it continued to weep.

“You have no idea how much I’ll enjoy having this monster ramming its way inside my ass.”

Starsky scrunched his eyes shut, helpless against the image Jack’s words inspired. Dear God, finally someone to fuck. Finally someone to take his mind off of Hutch.

 _What a_ _bout me?_ the inner voice of his heart asked. _Will this_ _stranger take your mind off of what I need_?

 _Shut_ _up!_

Starsky banged his head repeatedly against the unforgiving metal surface of the door behind him. The pain not only distracted him from his thoughts but also from the sandpaper-rasp of Jack’s tongue on his balls.

 _You’re not being fair_ , he accused his heart. _This isn’t about Hutch. It’s about relief. Getting some relief from this unrelenting hunger inside of me. I need this._

_Do you?_

Hutch’s face rose up to haunt him, and suddenly Starsky felt the overpowering need to clear the air with Jack. He needed the man to know that if they did get together, it would be a one-time deal. No emotions, no caring. Just sex. Just raw, fuck-your-brains-out sex.

“Jack, wait. I need to tell you something.” The words spilled out of him, frantic and desperate and agonising. “There’s somebody else. My partner at work. I love him, Jack, and even though we may never get together, I’ll still go on loving him. Hutch is my world. Do you hear me? Do you understand? I love somebody else. Always have. Always will, damn it.”

Searing moist heat engulfed his rod, and Starsky simply forgot what he was saying. Tangling his fingers in the soft thickness of Jack’s hair, he clutched the man’s head to his groin.

“Oh, I understand,” Starsky heard Jack mumble between bouts of licking and sucking.

He tried his best to concentrate on what was being said, but it was damn difficult. Jack was voracious, swallowing his organ to the root, almost like a man denied sustenance. He discovered his analogy wasn’t that far off when he heard what Jack had to say next.

“You have no idea how much I understand the hunger, Dave. The hankering, the pain of wanting, of being denied what you so badly need.”

Starsky felt Jack press his face into the damp curls surrounding his erection. “Damn you, Ennis,” the man whispered hoarsely. “Damn your sorry-ass soul to hell.”

Releasing his hold on Jack’s head, Starsky dropped his hands to the broad shoulders below and felt them shudder. Suddenly the illicit encounter he thought he so desperately wanted evolved into one of shared comfort.

He hauled Jack to his feet and enfolded him in his arms. The stranger accepted his offer by circling Starsky’s back with his arms and fisting the fabric of his vest. Hot tears that scalded his neck soon followed.

They stayed like that for several minutes, locked in each other’s arms. Their mouths searched for the answers they knew they would only find in the kisses of those that had denied them their love.

Jack was the first to pull away. He collected his Stetson from where it had fallen on the ground. The expensive hat was settled on his head with the front brim pulled even lower than before. Starsky briefly considered tipping the Stetson back so that he could see Jack’s eyes but negated that thought when he saw the pair of clenched fists banging against denim-encased thighs. Silence reigned while they put their clothes to right.

“Wanna tell me about this Ennis?” he finally asked. He followed Jack out of the alley, clasping his shoulders with both hands once the stranger halted his retreat.

Jack remained closed-mouth for a full thirty seconds before answering. “I will if you will. You tell me your sob story, and I’ll tell you mine.”

Starsky glanced to the side and frowned when his gaze focused on the sign advertising Ginger’s dance studio. His frown turned curious when he noticed the man entering the front door. He couldn’t see his face but there was something familiar about him.

“Dave?”

Starsky returned his attention to the handsome stranger and the widening damp spot just to the left of his jeans’ zipper.

“Dave? Your stare is stoking my fire. Not exactly conducive to spilling one’s guts, if you get my drift.”

Embarrassed beyond measure, Starsky jerked his gaze away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, dropping his hands to his sides. “I was thinking about someone.”

“You and me both,” Jack admitted with an empathetic smile.

The black Stetson finally was tilted back several inches, allowing Starsky to see the sadness and heartbreak etched upon Jack’s features. His gut tightened when he realized he was looking at a mirror image of his own face.

“You still want to talk?” Jack asked.

Starsky thought about the cold shower waiting for him at home. It made the decision for him. “Yeah, Jack. Only thing is, I won’t get off work for another two hours.”

Jack nodded. “I can wait. Believe you me, I can wait with the best of ‘em.”

The boast came with a smile that was more misery than joy. It spoke of a patience that had been tested way beyond its limits. Would he soon be wearing that smile?

“And once we’re through talking? What then?” Starsky moved a step closer, pinning his gaze to Jack’s.

“If you’re still interested,” a flush of embarrassment took possession of Jack’s cheeks, “my ass is yours.”

Starsky started to nod his head, then stopped. Hutch’s face again floated before him, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure he was ready to do more than just talk. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there, okay?”

Nodding his understanding, Jack dug out his wallet and extracted a business card. He then liberated a pen from the inside of his jacket and scribbled down a name and a number before handing the card over. “This is the hotel where I’m staying, and that’s my room number. Call me when you get off work. I’ll order us up a late night snack, in case all that uh, talking, gets us hungry.”

Starsky started to laugh but choked it down when Jack gripped his lower arm.

“I really want to see you again, Dave,” his companion declared forcefully. “Even if all we do is talk.”

The pain in Jack’s eyes was easy to read and the more he heard, the more he realized Jack and he were in the same boat -- in love with men who couldn’t or wouldn’t love them back in the manner they so desperately craved.

“It’ll be late,” he warned before tucking the card away. “And yeah, I’ll call before I come. Make sure you haven’t fallen asleep waiting on me.”

“If I fall asleep, I hope it’ll be with you in my arms,” Jack confessed.

Refusing to encourage the lonely man, Starsky took a step back. “My break is almost over. Better get back to work.”

He looked his fill of the Texan while shaking hands good-bye, and he continued looking until Jack had walked out of sight. Fate had a strange way of screwing with his life, and he definitely wanted to remember the attractive stranger and their sweet but short interlude.

 

+++++++

 

“There’s my favorite naughty boy.”

Starsky was still contemplating a pair of haunted blue eyes when Ginger Evans called to him. So lost in his thoughts of Jack, he had nearly walked past the former movie star when the woman’s presence finally registered with him.

“Ginger, my love.”

Turning to face his employer, he collected her hand and bowed low before bestowing upon it the softest of kisses. “You look absolutely ravishing this evening.”

The owner of the dance studio blushed. “You, my dear, have a silver tongue.” Somewhat flustered by the comment, Ginger played with the fox stole around her neck, rearranging it several times before settling on its original position. “No wonder the customers adore you.”

Starsky offered the older woman a genuine smile. Over the past few weeks Ginger and he had grown quite close. She, because of the recent loss of her beloved husband, was attuned to those suffering with matters of the heart and had easily seen through his forced cheerfulness. She immediately took him under her wing. He was invited to her private sanctum on the third floor of the studio, where the two of them talked and watched old movies together starring who else but Ginger herself.

“Will you be stopping by this Friday night, Dave? A dear associate of mine has loaned me her Errol Flynn collection.” Ginger pretended to fan herself. “Now there was a man. Too bad he enjoyed the boys more than he did the girls.” A theatrical sigh of false sorrow escaped her painted lips. “It would have been a glorious love affair.”

Starsky laughed because he knew the truth. Ginger had only ever loved one man and that was her dearly departed husband. She may have flirted with every man in Hollywood but her heart had never strayed. “How he resisted your beauty is beyond my comprehension.”

Again, the aging actress blushed. “Oh, stop it.” With a smile that spoke of true fondness, she tapped him on the arm. “You are so good for my ego, you handsome boy.” Ginger glanced over his shoulder and nodded to whoever was standing behind him. “Yes, Anna. I remember.”

Starsky turned and smiled at the young woman who manned the front desk. She was Ginger’s niece and, like her aunt, was stunningly beautiful.

Before his natural inclination to flirt could kick in, Ginger took him by the arm and directed him toward the large spiral staircase. “Anna came to remind me about your next appointment.” Instead of walking into the main ballroom where most lessons took place, Ginger guided him up the stairs.

“Now, Dave,” she said softly. “I want to make sure that you pay extra attention to this client. And to assure that you do so, I’ve had Anna put my private studio at your disposal.”

In deference to his companion’s age, Starsky ascended the stairs slowly. “I’m honored that you would allow me that privilege.”

To say that he was surprised was an understatement. Only the most elite of customers and the most experienced of instructors were allowed inside Ginger’s private studio. In fact, the doors were kept locked at all times, and only Anna and her aunt had access to the keys.

He pulled out his dance card once they arrived at their destination. The name assigned to the eight o’clock slot was not a name whatsoever, only a pair of initials. K.H.

His heart stuttered to a halt at the sight of those so very familiar initials but his brain kick-started its rhythm once common sense took over.

“Yeah, right. I wish,” he mumbled

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Ginger asked.

Starsky ran a hand through his hair and forced a smile. “Don’t tell me. K.H. is Katherine Hepburn? Am I right?” He shook his head. “Can’t be. Isn’t she living as a recluse somewhere back East?”

“No, it is not Katherine Hepburn.”

“Then who is it? Come on, spill the beans. Who’s hiding behind Door Number 1?”

Starsky stood to the side so that Ginger could open the door to her private studio. He tried to usher her inside, but she stopped him.

“Here are the keys. Please lock up when you’re finished.” Ginger flipped one edge of her stole over her shoulder and smiled at him. “And Dave?”

“Yes?” Starsky tried his best to see who was inside but found the room too dark. Whoever was waiting for him had turned off all but one of the small overhead lights. Why? Darkness for the sake of romance was one thing, but darkness that didn’t allow you to see shit was something else altogether. “Anybody there?”

Ginger tapped his cheek with her hand.

“Excuse me?” Starsky forced his eyebrows down once Ginger removed her hand from his derrière.

The older woman chuckled. “Don’t forget to call Anna if you find you’re too exhausted to come to work tomorrow.” Ginger pursed her lips as if in thought. “Better yet, just go ahead and take the day off. I’ll have Link take over your lessons for you.”

Talk about confused as hell. Starsky pushed the door all the way open. Who was inside, and why was he going to be too exhausted to come to work?

“Ginger, I’m not sure I understand what you’re---” Laughter accompanied another friendly pat to his behind. “Ginger? What’s going---”

“Starsky.”

The voice that owned his heart and his dreams called to him from the darkness. His playful employer was totally forgotten as he followed the echo of his name.

“Hutch?”

He blinked and then blinked again. He even went as far as to pinch himself just to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. The sharp pain made him hiss and Hutch smile.

“Something wrong?” his partner asked

“Could be,” Starsky confessed. “Especially considering the grief you’ve put me through the past few weeks.”

Hutch stepped into the light, and for the first time Starsky could see the single rose his partner held in his hand. “If that’s for Ginger, you just missed her.” Turning his head slightly to the side, he quickly checked to see if his personal matchmaker had indeed vacated the premises. The room was empty except for the two of them. “I’m sure if you haul butt, you can catch her before she makes it downstairs.”

“The rose isn’t for Ginger.”

He found it hard to meet Hutch’s gaze. The familiar blue orbs were glittering with an emotion that shouldn’t be there, an emotion that had been vehemently denied in the past on more than one occasion.

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t for me,” he grumbled. “Guys like you don’t give guys like me flowers.” Shifting his gaze to the tightly held rose, he suddenly felt somewhat short-winded, as if he’d been holding his breath from the moment he’d laid eyes on his partner.

“They might if they get their heads out of their asses.”

The soft whisper of words forced the breath from his lungs. Straightening, Starsky pinned Hutch with a look that demanded an explanation. As usual, his partner heard the unspoken request.

Taking a step back, Hutch withdrew the flower and tucked it out of sight. A sigh of frustration preceded the hand he ran through his thinning hair. “Give me a break,” he groused. “You changed teams on me mid-season. What’d you expect? For me to just fall into your arms and confess my undying love. Hell, Starsk, you know me.”

The flower came back into view when Hutch punched him on the arm. Several petals fell to the floor unnoticed. “You know me,” his partner repeated. “I had to meditate on it. Wrap my brain around a truth I’ve been hiding from since the moment we met.”

Glaring for all he was worth, Starsky rubbed his arm. There was no way he was going to apologize for his feelings. If Hutch had problems accepting his, well, that was his problem. He’d suffered through weeks of sleepless nights and was now comfortable in the new skin he was wearing. Hutch could either accept that fact or find himself another partner and best friend.

“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?” he asked angrily. “Meditating? Looked more like sulking to me.”

This time the flower hit him in the face when Hutch grabbed hold of his shoulders. More crimson petals fell, but Starsky dismissed them. His attention was on the man before him.

“Well? I’m waiting, Blondie. Enlighten me. Exactly what did all your meditatin’ reveal?”

He could feel the heat radiating off Hutch’s lean form, and it was all he could do to keep from closing the gap between their bodies. The inner voices that had been tormenting him all day were now in cahoots with each other. They were both demanding he take Hutch in his arms and kiss the daylights out of him. He was more than happy to comply; only thing was, he refused to budge an inch until he knew without a shadow of doubt that his jaw wasn’t going to be hammered into a million pieces.

Hutch stared at him for what seemed like forever, and the longer the intense scrutiny went on, the more nervous he got.

“Hutch.”

The sound of his own name seem to release Hutch from whatever held him in its grip. “This,” he claimed. “This is what I discovered.”

Starsky felt his heart actually climb up into his throat when his unresisting body was pulled into an embrace. Long fingers tangled in his curls and molded themselves to his skull before guiding his head to its proper resting place on Hutch’s shoulder.

 _This is where I belong_ , he thought, _where I’ve always belonged._

After several minutes had passed, he wrapped his arms around Hutch’s waist and guided them in a slow, leisurely waltz. His maneuver did not go unnoticed by his partner.

“Don’t tell me I’m dancing with the famous Ramóne.” Hutch’s voice was laced with laughter.

“Nope. Just me. Just plain old Dave Starsky.” Snuggling closer, he continued to guide the two of them around the dance floor.

Eventually their feet slowed until they were barely moving. One curious eyebrow took a hike up Hutch’s forehead when Starsky stopped their dancing altogether. The eyebrow nearly disappeared from sight a second later when all contact was withdrawn.

“Starsk?”

“I appreciate the courage it took for you to come here, but I think I need to hear the reason why you’ve had a change of heart.” He offered Hutch a crooked smile that hopefully communicated not only his willingness to listen but would also encourage his partner to open up to him. “Let’s talk.”

He led them to an alcove that contained a loveseat flanked by two chairs. Claiming one of the chairs, he indicated for Hutch to take the love seat.

His partner sat down as instructed, but then began to cross and uncross his legs. The nervous action naturally drew his gaze, and another smile slipped out when Starsky saw the obvious evidence of his partner’s desire. His smile widened. Hutch had caught him staring and had immediately dropped his hands over his tell-tale crotch.

“Talk to me, Ken. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Blue eyes flew up to meet his. Rarely did they call each other by their first names. The deliberate use of his partner’s given name seemed to set the mood, and Hutch reacted by scooting forward and taking one of his hands.

“I’m not sure why I never told you I’m bi,” Hutch confessed. “Maybe it’s because of the way my parents treated me after they found out. Maybe it’s because of Coach Hansen.”

“Coach Hansen? Never heard you mention that name. Who’s that?” Starsky asked.

“Dean was part of my lurid past.”

“Lurid past? You?” Starsky grinned. “Pull my other leg.”

A tight smile filled with pain flashed at him before Hutch rose to his feet and began to pace.

“I played football for Dean back in high school, and I don’t know if he recognized a kindred spirit or what, but we became good friends. Got quite close, in fact.” Hutch hit him with a look of warning. “And no, I’m not talking close as in sex. Dean was like a second father to me. A father who had no problem with a son who had a thing for the male gender.”

Starsky abandoned his seat and placed a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, halting the man’s restless pacing. Feeling the tenseness in the muscles, he commenced a comforting massage. “This Hansen, I take it he was gay?”

“He was,” Hutch admitted. “Dean owned a house about a half-mile up the road from us, and as far as I can remember, he and Josh Taylor had always lived there together. Now Josh, that dude was huge. Tall and wide as the houses he built. Didn’t talk much, but he was a man with a heart of gold. He’d give you the shirt off his back, if you asked for it.”

About a million questions were begging to be asked, but Starsky kept his mouth shut and his fingers working.

“I hung out with Dean and Josh on a regular basis. Like I said, they lived just down the road. Hardly a day went by that I wasn’t over at their house.” Hutch rolled his head and moaned when the massaged shifted to the vertebrae in his neck. Glancing over his shoulder, he offered a smile of appreciation. “Thanks, man.”

Starsky ruffled Hutch’s hair. “I’m here for you, babe. No matter what.”

Before he knew it, he was hauled into a rib-crushing hug, but as soon as it began, it was over, and he was left staring at a ramrod-straight back. “Hutch?”

“That year I spent with those guys,” Hutch whispered hoarsely, “was the best and the worst year of my life.”

“Worst?” A feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. “Something happened, didn’t it?” Starsky asked, moving just enough to see Hutch’s profile. “Something bad.”

The words seemed to get stuck in Hutch’s throat. He swallowed convulsively several times before answering, “I was the one who found them. It was horrible, Starsk. Even now….”

Starsky didn’t need the details. He could hear them in Hutch’s voice. Stepping closer, he pulled him into his arms -- his chest to Hutch’s back, his hands sliding around his partner’s waist and traveling upwards to his heart. Hutch immediately leaned into the embrace as if seeking strength and his silent request for comfort was rewarded with a kiss to his nape and a hug that offered everything Starsky had to give.

Hutch took possession of the hands guarding his heart. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I could’ve used their phone to call the police. Instead, I ran home. Ran home to my dad, thinking ‘cause he was a lawyer; he’d know what to do. Can you imagine how sick I felt when I got there and, before I could open my mouth, my father was telling me the news of their deaths?”

Starsky caught how his partner had switched from using the loving term, dad, to the impersonal term, father. It spoke volumes.

“I knew right then and there,” Hutch continued, “that he’d had a hand in their deaths. Whether he was in on the planning or the actual attack, I’ll never know. Everything got hushed up so fast, hell, the local newspaper didn’t even carry their obits.”

“Jesus, Hutch.” Starsky buried his face in the soft blond hair he loved so dearly. Neither of them said a word; they simply took comfort in each other’s presence.

It was a good five minutes or so before Hutch pulled free and, after turning around, swiped at his eyes. “From that moment on, home became just somewhere to lay my head at night. Not only did my mother side with my father, but she completely ignored me. There I was grieving over the loss of two friends, and it was as if she could care less, as if I didn’t even exist.” Hutch made another pass at his face, this time using the sleeve of his shirt. “Like I said, pretty soon all I did was go home to sleep.”

“Is that why you switched teams? Went ‘women only’?”

Hutch shrugged. “It seemed the lesser of two evils,” he admitted. “Safer. Less risk.”

“And now? What’s changed now?” Starsky put his heart on hold and waited for the answer that would decide his future.

Hutch held out the rose he’d brought and let out a humourless snort when he saw its bedraggled shape. The sound evaporated into silence when their gazes locked upon each other.

“That last case we worked, when those cult fanatics snatched you….” Hutch closed his eyes as if the memory was too painful to remember. “I know it sounds utterly cliché, but my entire life flashed before my eyes in those few seconds before I got to you. Only thing was, it was my future not my past.” Hutch lifted his head and stared straight at him. “To put it honestly, I hated what I saw. It sure as hell wasn’t a life I wanted to live.”

“Why’s that?” Starsky asked. His partner had never breathed a word of this when they were writing out their reports. In fact, Hutch had made a joke about how much a routine it was getting to be, him rushing to Starsky’s rescue once more. “What was it about your future that you didn’t like?”

“You weren’t in it,” Hutch softly answered, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Oh.” Starsky chewed on his partner’s answer for a full minute before asking, “So, all of a sudden you’ve decided you want to bat for the home team now? That I’m _worth_ the risk?”

Hutch snapped his head up. “Starsk, you do know that I would never intentionally place your life in jeopardy? I mean, if you’re not rea—”

Starsky interrupted, “Are you saying us loving each other is too dangerous a risk to take?”

“It could be. The public’s views on gays haven’t changed that much in the last twenty years. You could be risking a whole lot more than just a broken heart.” Hutch dropped his gaze for a second. When he looked back up, he zeroed in on him as if trying to see straight through to his soul. “I know now that I’m willing to take the risk, but are you? Have you really thought this thing through?”

Starsky shook his head. “Hate to say it, partner, but it sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of what could be the best damn thing I could do with my life.”

“Do you think I’d be standing here if that was so?”

Hutch lifted a hand to his shoulder and slid it behind his neck, exerting just enough pressure to cause him to take a step closer. Starsky wanted so bad to obliterate the space between them but he resisted. Hutch had more to say and the next words out of his partner’s mouth blew his mind.

“Dave, I love you. Have done so for years. That’ll never change, not ever.”

Hutch brushed a thumb along his jaw and over his ear.

“But if something should happen to you because of that love…. Hell, you might as well put a loaded gun to my head.” Hutch once again held out the rose. “Cause there’s no way I’d want to hang around without you by my side.”

Starsky finally took his flower and gently kissed the few remaining petals. He then checked it for thorns before tucking it inside his ruffled shirt and placing it next to his heart. “Ouch,” he said with a wince when an overlooked thorn scraped his chest. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Bad idea,” he wryly admitted.

Digging the flower back out, he chuckled when it reappeared with only one petal left intact. Plucking free the crimson beauty, he tossed away the unadorned stem. “My first rose, if you must know,” he admitted. Pulling out his wallet, he carefully tucked the petal inside. The business card Jack had given him earlier caught his eye, and immediately he was reminded of the man’s tortured look of loneliness. It was a look he never wanted to see reflected in Hutch’s crystal blue eyes.

He pulled his soon-to-be lover into his arms and once again guided them slowly around the studio’s dance floor. Their bodies moved in perfect sync as their mouths met in the softest of kisses. “Kenneth,” he whispered, “I’m willing if you’re willing.”

“Starsk—”

Starsky twirled Hutch in a tight circle. That move was followed by a dip. Staring straight into Hutch’s eyes, he smiled. “Hutch, I’m Jewish, I’m a cop, and I drive a tomato-red Torino. How much riskier can my life get?”

All further protests were silenced by a kiss that left both of them panting for air and clutching at each other as if their lives depended on it. Pulling apart seconds later, both readjusted themselves and fell out laughing when they realized what they’d done.

“Come on,” Starsky hoarsely instructed. “Ginger’s a good-natured soul, but I think even she would object to her most favorite instructor making out with one of the customers in her private studio.”

An assessing gaze ran up and down his frame. The visual appraisal halted when it lit upon the prominent bulk of manhood directed straight at his partner.

“Jesus Christ,” Hutch muttered. “You’re gonna put somebody’s eye out with that.” Forcing a deep breath, Hutch hummed softly under his breath but his attempt to appear calm and collected was ruined when he hungrily licked his lips.

“You’re not fooling anyone with that zen stuff, you know that, right?” He had seen where Hutch’s gaze was directed, and couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride. He looked down at his crotch. Make that a large sense of pride.

“…as long as you don’t object, I’m cool with waiting.”

Hutch’s voice finally penetrated the lust hindering his grey matter. “Waiting?” he questioned. The word brought Jack’s face to mind. “Speaking of waiting.”

He took Hutch by the arm and walked with him to the door. “You’re not going to believe this, but just this evening I met one of those kindred spirits you were talking about. His name’s Jack, and he’s here on business. Glancing to one side, he checked Hutch’s reaction and was relieved to find his friend calmly listening. “If you’re really okay with waiting a bit, I sorta promised I’d stop by and talk with him.”

Hutch halted short of the door and pinned him with a dubious look. “Was talking **all** you planned on doing?”

Starsky blushed. His partner knew him so well. “It is now.”

“Good answer.”

Starsky surrendered his mouth for a third kiss, and again he ended up short of breath and weak in the knees. He grabbed for the door once Hutch released his lips. “Keep that up, and we’ll never make it to Jack’s hotel.”

The obvious proof of his passion was squeezed and the moan the blatant move elicited was greeted with a cheeky grin that more than likely demanded to be wiped out of existence with another kiss but . . . weak knees and short of breath, remember?

“Keep **that** up,” Hutch again manhandled the family jewels, “and making it to Jack’s hotel will be the least of your worries.”

“Stop teasing me, and it’ll go down on its own.” Starsky checked his package. “Or at least I hope it will. You never know ‘bout this bad boy. Sometimes I swear it’s got a mind of its own.”

Realizing he was talking to himself, he flew down the stairs and finally caught up with his partner midway. He took the time to openly admire Hutch’s very fine ass and long pair of legs and grinned when Ginger, who was waiting by the front desk, caught him ogling. He stopped short of the door and threw the older women not only the keys to her private studio but also a kiss of appreciation. “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome, and good luck,” she answered with a knowing wink.

Rushing after his friend, he hollered, “Hey, Hutch, knowing that heap you so misguidedly call a car, it’ll be a miracle if we even get out of the parking lot, much less make it to the hotel.”

“Keep it up, Starsk, and you’ll be walking the entire way,” Hutch warned.

Stumbling slightly Starsky stopped to readjust the boner in his jeans. “Keep it up. Get it down. Make up your mind, will ya?”

“Starsk!”

 

The End

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And please know all mistakes are mine and mine alone. If anything is glaringly wrong, don't hesitate to stop by and let me know.
> 
> [If you have nothing better to do, you can follow me and my eclectic tastes on Tumblr!](http://angelise7.tumblr.com/)


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